I have fallen head over heels in love with a district manager named Ralph. Ralph smells like coffee, letterhead, and advancement.
When Ralph and his steel grey every lock in place hair walks in my office my every orifice puckers.
"Do you have the numbers for this months food budget?" the Bill Clinton look alike will ask me as he takes off his leather coat and sets aside his breifcase.
"I think they are somewhere under the desk", I answer in a Monica Lewinsky voice in my head. But in real life all I say is "squeak" through lips pursed as if I had just swallowed a lemon drop.
"Are you alright?" my true love will inquire
"Wes! I answer not able to make my face right.
I am torn. I want my numbers to be so good he will use me for an example and give me a pat on my head. I want my numbers to be so bad he spanks my rosebud bottom.
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